Warstalker's Track (49 page)

“Thanks,” David murmured, patting his hand.

The clock ticked. People began to stir. David wanted away from there so bad he could taste it, not because he didn’t care about his father but because he cared too much and had been through more than anyone should have to lately and just couldn’t stand not knowing. “Gotta—” he began. And froze.

Big Billy’s lips had moved again. His breathing was stronger, and his eyelids were stirring. “Pa!” David called, easing closer. “C’mon, Pa, you can do it! I’m not finished with you yet!”

“…boy…” Big Billy mumbled. “Boy.”

“Right,” David acknowledged, nodding vigorously. “It’s your boy.”

“Two boys…” Big Billy slurred, “…got two boys.”

“Right,” David repeated. “Other one’s right here. You wanta talk to him?”

“I want,” Big Billy announced clearly, opening his eyes, “some coffee-an’-’shine.”

“You do not!” JoAnne squawked in outrage. “Why, Bill, you—why, Bill—!” She didn’t finish because she was on her knees sobbing, burying her face in her husband’s rough red hands.

David grinned at his pa over his mother’s head. Bill grinned back, lopsided. “Feel real funny inside,” he rumbled. “Feel like some kinda clot’s dissolvin’, or something—an’ like something’s—I dunno, kinda pullin’ together. Weird.”

“’Course it’s weird,” David retorted. “One of my friends did it.”

“’Preciate it,” Big Billy yawned. “Now, if you folks don’t mind, I reckon bed’d look pretty good.” And with that, he levered himself to his feet and lurched toward the door. David’s friends—everyone who’d been on the mountain, plus Darrell and Gary, whom Myra had summoned and debriefed—parted before him as though he were a king. David started to follow him, but JoAnne shook her head. “See to these folks, you and Dale. Get ’em fed and bathed and whatever they want. I gotta spend some time with my man.”

David started to protest, then thought better of it, then changed his mind again. He was still waffling when he heard the throaty macho rumble of a big-bore motorcycle crunching up the drive. By the time he’d made it to the back door, the rider was striding through the yard.

“John!” he yelled joyfully. “John Devlin! Get in here!”

The Ranger looked a little crispy around the eyes, David noted, wondering what kind of night he’d had, and cursing himself for not checking in. “Well,” he offered through an uncertain grin, “welcome to chaos.”

Devlin’s brows quirked upward. “Looks like a lot of company, but
not
chaos.”

“Yeah, well,” David sighed, “it’s a long story.”

“Which reminds me,” Scott sighed in turn, “I gotta scoot. Don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I need to check on some dudes. Don’t want to, but—you know.”

David slapped himself on the head. “Oh, bloody hell! I forgot about the blessed developers! Shit, here I thought this was all over, and we’ve still gotta deal with that!”

“That,”
Liz reminded him pertly, “is why we got into this.”

“Developers?” Devlin echoed casually. “What’s the deal?”

David scowled at him. “Didn’t we tell you? Hell, John, I don’t know who knows what anymore, but if we didn’t—”

“Quick and dirty,” John broke in.
“What’s the deal?”

“The deal,” David growled, “is that an outfit called Mystic Mountain Properties took one look at Bloody Bald and decided to build a resort on top of it, with a marina in the Cove.”

“Bloody Bald…” Devlin repeated carefully.

“Right.”

“That would be a…mountain?”

David rolled his eyes. “You could say that. Mountain here, mountain in Faerie too. Heart of the trouble, ’cause the Sidhe decided it was sacred, or whatever.”

“Mountain,” Devlin repeated, eyes twinkling.

David’s eyes narrowed. “There something you’re not tellin’ me?”

“Maybe,” Devlin grinned, “you oughta pay more attention to what’s goin’ on around you. Man oughtn’t to take his local landscape for granted.”

“What—?” David began, then broke off and pushed past the smirking Ranger onto the porch, thence down the steps and into the yard. It was the first time he’d been outside since daylight arrived and with it the lifting of what had seemed to be a quite normal fog. Thus, he’d had no reason to peruse the local landscape. He did now—and gasped.

There had never been a really good view of Bloody Bald this far out the Cove, and most of it had always been masked by trees so that only its white quartzite peak showed.

Now, however, that peak showed no longer.

“Oh, my God!” David breathed. “The whole damned
mountain’s
gone!”

“Gonna be some pissed-off boys over at Mystic Mountain,” Scott chuckled, stepping up behind them, vanguard of a horde that had likewise come to gawk. “Gonna be some pissed-off money men down in Atlanta, too, ’cause that mountain was the whole damned draw.”

“No marina?” David mused. “I mean, won’t they want to cut their losses?”

“Maybe,” Scott replied. “But I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Nor would I,” Liz giggled right behind him. “Besides, after last night, you can always buy ’em off with Faery gold.”

“Right now,” David laughed, his tummy rumbling, “I’d rather just buy breakfast!”

Scott Gresham’s Journal

(Tuesday, July 1)

Well, it’s over. I
think
it is, anyway, though we shall see. Still, I feel pretty good about it. Mostly, frankly, I’m just tired and sleepy. I don’t remember the last time I got any shut-eye. Not last night, that’s for sure, with that nice little mountainside pool all of a sudden turned into a war zone, and me having to play soldier, which actually made me feel pretty decent, because it let me actually do something active, something I could see and that everybody else could also see. (Yeah, I know that sounds like ego, but as messy as this all is headspace-wise, I need for folks to know I did something too.) And shooting let me vent a helluva lot of anger.

I also killed some folks—or shot at ’em, anyway—and I’m not sure how I feel about that
at all.
(And of course I won’t be able to see a shrink about it either, but what else is new?) I’ve rationalized it by saying I mostly shot at Faeries, and shot to wound, and that those folks probably weren’t real sterling examples of humanity anyway. But still, I wonder. Something tells me we’re all gonna spend a lot of time deconstructing this. Oh, well!

Anyway, I
think
I’ve done the right thing. I stayed on the side of the good guys, which was harder than folks might think, especially when what’s good in terms of your own best interests may not be good in terms of the big picture.

As for Mystic Mountain: who knows? Their big stake in all this was Bloody Bald, and there
is
no Bloody Bald anymore (and I don’t have to explain why either, because I obviously didn’t do it, nor see it done; but if they bug me about it, I’ll just quit). The marina was supposed to be mostly to support the ferry out to the lodge in the mountain, so I don’t know if they’ll build it or not. They might, to cut their losses; and the Sullivans may have to live with that. But nobody’s gonna flood the Cove now, and that’s what we were really fighting for.

As for me. I can probably get my old job back at the newsstand. Plus Finno’s said he’d help me find some gold and jewels and stuff on my own, which is what I really want to do, because I’d rather be my own man and not be beholding to anyone.

Bottom line, when all is said and done: I’ve passed through the fire and come out on the other side, tempered, or harder, but better made (wonder where
that
came from?). I think I’ve done the right thing. I think things are gonna work out for most of my friends. I think I’m gonna be happy.

I think things are gonna be okay.